The Day Before the Second Round of the Concubine Selection
That morning, the palace was busier than usual. The servants hurried through the halls, finishing their tasks with little conversation. The Ladies went back and forth between their chambers and the training hall, checking gowns and makeup to ensure everything was perfect.
Tomorrow would be an important stage. Today was the final chance for the candidates to leave an impression that could influence their ranking in the eyes of the King and the judges. A single word or gesture done well could change everything. Though officially called a rehearsal, none of the candidates treated it as such. To them, it was another competition.
While everyone else was busy vying for attention and building their image, Aerith, of course, was not interested in leaving any impression at all. She sat on a wooden bench near the window of the linen storeroom, flipping through an old recipe book she had found in the kitchen. For her, reading about how to make onion soup was far more soothing than practicing in the training hall.
Unfortunately, the door to the linen storeroom suddenly swung open. Madam Gwenevere stood there, her hands on her hips.
"Lady Moonstone," she called with a tone far too sweet, the kind that made Aerith shiver in unease, "why do I not see you in the training hall?"
Aerith closed the book slowly. "Because I was… studying the recipe for onion soup, Madam."
Gwenevere looked at her as one might look at a stubborn stain on silk. She snorted in irritation, then pulled Aerith out. "You will attend etiquette training today. At the very least, if you are eliminated tomorrow, you will be eliminated with your back straight. To lose with graceful gestures will be a sweet memory for the rest of your life." She said it with a convincing tone, as if coaxing Aerith to cooperate.
The truth, however, was simpler. Gwen would be punished by the selection committee if the candidate under her responsibility was absent from all training sessions. And so far, Aerith had not appeared in a single one.
"What are you waiting for? Come along!"
Aerith nodded. She knew refusal would only push Madam Gwen to drag her more forcefully. Reluctantly, she followed, allowing herself to be prepared for etiquette practice.
Gwenevere led her to a small vanity in the corner of the room and quickly combed Aerith's hair.
"Ah… I cannot wait for tomorrow. Once you are eliminated, I will finally be able to sleep soundly again," Gwenevere muttered as she brushed Aerith's long hair. Its golden-brown sheen matched beautifully with the dusty pink gown Aerith had just chosen. The combination gave her an air of sweetness and innocence, pure and radiant.
Enchanting.
Realizing how naturally beautiful Aerith looked in that gown, Gwenevere smacked her own forehead and ordered her to change. "Pick the ugliest gown you have, preferably one that is too big. Understand?"
Aerith nodded, removing the dusty pink gown and instead selecting a faded gray dress that hung loosely at the waist and dragged too long at the hem, making her look as if she were drowning in worn fabric.
"Perfect!"
Once Aerith's face was lightly powdered, Gwenevere escorted her to the training hall. The hall was crowded. Aerith's arrival made no impression at all; no one even noticed her. All eyes were focused on being perfect.
Lady Venetia led the front row, with Mirabelle one step behind her. Both looked like blossoms that instinctively knew how to face the sun.
The other Ladies practiced walking, sitting, even turning their heads gracefully. Aerith stood at the far back, awkwardly mimicking the movements of the person in front of her.
"Relax your shoulders, lift your head," the etiquette instructor's voice rang clearly, audible even to Aerith hiding in the last row.
Clumsily, Aerith lifted her head, far too stiff, making her back look like a wooden post. Her rigid posture drew attention.
Lady Venetia glanced over her shoulder, her thin smile dripping with mockery. "Lady Moonstone, you look like an old grandmother stricken with rheumatism."
A few Ladies chuckled. Aerith pretended not to hear, continuing to imitate the instructor's movements, though everyone agreed she looked more like a patient than a concubine candidate.
Creak.
The doors opened as the Ladies practiced. A tall figure entered with firm steps. At once, all the Ladies bowed deeply. No one dared raise their heads too quickly.
King Lucien Valcourt stood at the doorway, radiating authority without a word. His black cloak draped neatly over his shoulders, contrasting with the pristine high-collared white shirt beneath. His dark hair was slicked back, sharpening the line of his jaw. His silver gaze was cold and piercing, weighing the worth of every soul in the hall.
He strode to the side of the room and stopped where everyone could see him from the corner of their eyes. His hands clasped behind his back, his posture flawless. No smile, no greeting. Only a gaze heavy enough to press down the air.
Lucien did not rush. His eyes moved from one participant to another, as if calculating something they could not comprehend. His silence was not indifference; it was the patience of someone measuring how long each person could endure under pressure.
One thing was certain: Lucien possessed the kind of absolute beauty that could make women willingly surrender their lives.
The hall was silent for a time before practice resumed. On the other side, Lady Venetia moved gracefully, showcasing her training for the King. Mirabelle bowed with elegance, her gestures reflecting years of discipline and leaving others not only envious but also spellbound.
Then came Aerith's turn. As usual, she stumbled over the hem of her dress.
"Ouch…" she gasped softly as her ankle twisted. She pulled herself up and walked with a limp.
No one laughed aloud, but some Ladies covered their mouths behind their fans. A few whispered with scorn, thinking Aerith was putting on a show.
"That cheap trick again. Low-class, but it seems to work. How irritating."
Another Lady sneered. "Without a doubt, Aerith is skilled at looking pitiful, confused, sad, and flustered."
"Oh, is that not exactly what men find endearing? Perhaps I underestimated Lady Moonstone's innocence. She is not as naive as she appears."
"If she really is pretending, I hope her ankle never heals by tomorrow."
The murmurs faded once Aerith rejoined the line. Her pained expression was all too natural, making her look even more pitiful.
From his place, Lucien remained silent. His face impassive, silver eyes unreadable. He made no comment, simply observed, then departed once the instructor dismissed the session.
Upon returning to his chamber, Lucien summoned Tobias.
"Send the royal physician to Lady Moonstone's quarters. Tell him to bring balm. Her ankle is twisted, and by tomorrow it must be healed."
"The royal physician, Your Majesty?" Tobias struggled to conceal his astonishment. For minor injuries among the candidates, it was exceedingly rare to summon the physician of the palace.
Lucien's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he muttered, "That foolish woman needs a lesson. Make certain she appears in the second round tomorrow."